LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO    j 


1 


presented  to  the 
UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DF  °TO 

by 


Mrs.    Anna  L. 


THE    THINGS    HE 
WROTE    TO    HER 


THE  THINGS  HE 
WROTE  TO    HER 


BY 
RICHARD  WIGHTMAN 

AUTHOR  OF  "SOUL-SPUR" 


NEW  YORK 
THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1915 


COPYRIGHT,    1914,    BY 
THE  CENTURY  CO. 

COPYRIGHT,  1910,  BY 

SUCCESS    COMPANY 


Published,  March,  1914 

Reprinted,  June,  1914. 

Reprinted,  September,  1914 


Oft  do  I  dream  this  strange  and  penetrat 
ing  dream; 

An  unknown  woman,  whom  I  love,  who 
loves  me  well, 

Who  does  not  every  time  quite  change,  nor 
yet  quite  dwell 

The  same, — and  loves  me  well,  and  knows 
me  as  I  am. 

and  she  alone  knows  to  dispel 

My  grief,  cooling  my  brow  with  her  tears' 
gentle  stream. 

— Paul  Verlaine. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

FIRSTWORD ix 

THE    FIRST    MORNING    AFTER    THE    FIRST 

EVENING 3 

A  WEEK  OR  SO  AFTER  THAT 6 

THE  MENTAL  MENU g 

THE  TREASURES  OF  MOROCCO 13 

TAKING  THE  WRAPPINGS  FROM  THE  HEART  & 

THE  HINDERING  MILES 22 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  BARTER 24 

THE  UNDERSTANDING 28 

THE  EARTH,  THE  HORSE,  AND  THE  WOMAN  34 

THE  PEDESTAL 38 

THE  FEAST  AND  THE  FIRE 42 

PHOTOGRAPHS 46 

A  GRAY  DAY 53 

POSING 60 

EMANCIPATION 63 

AT  MIDNIGHT 67 

THE  DAWN 71 

UPON  HER  BROW 79 

THE  PROBLEM 84 

THE  ACCIDENT 90 

THE  PROPOSITION 93 

WHY 102 


FIRSTWORD 

On  a  certain  planet,  once  upon  a 
time,  dwelt  a  man  and  a  woman. 
Both  were  alive;  both  were  human. 
One  day,  in  the  strange,  wide  path  of 
Chance,  they  came  face  to  face  and 
looked  into  each  other's  eyes.  After 
that,  for  a  long  time,  they  were  sel 
dom  in  the  same  neighborhood,  and, 
besides,  the  hard  hands  of  Conven 
tionality  and  what  is  called  Law  built 
high  fences  between  them,  frequently 
rendering  necessary  some  means  of 
communication  other  than  speech. 
What  the  man  wrote  to  the  woman 
is  in  this  book.  What  the  woman 
wrote  to  the  man  is  not  in  this  book. 
Not  all  things  that  happen  are  set 
down.  It  is  better  so. 


THE  THINGS 
HE  WROTE  TO  HER 


THE  FIRST  MORNING  AFTER 
THE  FIRST  EVENING 


Was  it  only  last  night? 

Today  is  the  8th.  yesterday  was  the 
7th.  Yes,  it  must  have  been  last 
night,  but  it  seems  such  a  long  time 
back.  Surely  hours  are  capacious 
things — they  hold  so  much ! 

I  did  not  know  that  I  was  going  to 
meet  you,  and  you  caught  me  quite 
unarmed.  There  are  so  many  women 
— they  swarm — and  one  really  ought 
to  be  ever  alert  and  on  the  defensive, 
but  last  night  when  you  stood  in  the 
path  and  challenged,  I  was  scarcely 
3 


THE    THINGS    HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

ready.  My  shield  appeared  to  be 
mislaid,  and  my  scabbard  empty,  and 
my  sense  of  distance  most  unreliable. 
I  will  not  say  that  you  took  any  unfair 
advantage,  nor  even  admit  that  you 
pinked  me,  but  when  I  put  to  you  the 
question,  "What  is  Life?"  and  you 
got  back  at  me  quick  and  strong  with 
"Life  is  the  Soul's  adventure  and  op 
portunity,"  I  knew  that,  as  women  go, 
you  were,  well — distinctive. 

For  the  first  half-hour  I  thought 
you  cold,  blase,  opinionated.  Later 
in  the  evening  I  began  to  think  that 
estimate  decidedly  unjust;  and  this 
morning  my  memory  holds  you  as 
warm,  expectant  and  receptive. 

I  hardly  know  why  I  am  writing 
this,  or  anything.  Perhaps  it  is  be- 
4 


THE    THINGS    HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

cause  I  did  not  sleep,  in  which  event 
my  hand  sometimes  shakes  and  traces 
foolish,  irregular  things. 

Woman  as  an  institution  is  very 
well  indeed,  but  women  in  particular 
I  do  not  like — much.  Their  ways 
upset  me  and  most  of  them  are  per 
fumed.  But  I  have  always  held  that 
somewhere  on  this  green  earth  there 
was  a  woman  who — who  was  a  real 
woman.  I  have  never  searched  for 
her  and  never  will,  but  in  my  pocket 
diary,  opposite  the  7th,  I  have  put,  in 
pencil,  a  little  cross.  I  do  not  know 
just  what  it  means — perhaps  nothing. 
It  is  merely  a  little  cross. 


A  WEEK  OR  SO  AFTER  THAT 


This  letter  is  designed  to  contain 
a  fact  and  a  warning.  The  fact  is 
bluntly  put  and  the  warning  as  solemn 
as  I  can  make  it,  and  were  your  woof 
of  the  common  feminine  sort  I  should 
expect  you  to  gather  your  skirts  and 
pass  on,  giving  to  your  world  a  well- 
ad  jectived  report  of  the  man  who 
dared. 

The  fact  is  this — I  desire  to  investi 
gate  you;  and  the  warning  this — if 
you  permit  me  to  do  so  I  shall  hold 
you  at  your  true  worth,  not  a  farthing 
more,  and  by  what  I  find  out  shall 
6 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

you  stand  or  fall,  in  my  own  peculiar 
esteem. 

I  think  I  can  count  on  you  to  under 
stand  that  this  design  of  mine  is 
neither  fell  nor  brutal — I  merely  wish 
to  know  you  as  you  are,  your 
thoughts,  hopes,  fears,  tastes,  recrea 
tions, — the  things  you  love,  the  things 
you  hate,  and  what  you  look  upon  as 
life's  supreme  good. 

And,  to  be  fair,  what  I  seek  to 
know  about  you,  you  shall  know 
about  me,  as  time  and  opportunity 
permit,  for  the  basis  of  friendship  is 
Understanding,  the  tenure  of  friend 
ship  is  Sincerity,  the  fruit  of  friend 
ship  is  Progress,  and  the  crown  of 
friendship  is  Peace. 

There  seems  to  be  no  earthly  rea- 
7 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO     HER 

son  why  any  man  and  woman  should 
not  build  a  little  ell  on  life  when  the 
tools  are  at  hand. 

Will   you   lunch  with  me  at   the 
Colonia,  Saturday  at  two  ? 


8 


THE  MENTAL  MENU 
* 

I  wonder  if  the  pillared  maw  of 
the  Colonia  was  quite  aware  of  the 
kind  of  people  it  swallowecj  that  Sat 
urday  at  two.  I  suppose  we  looked 
like  the  rest  of  those  who  came,  ate 
like  them,  drank  like  them,  and  de 
meaned  ourselves  in  a  similarly 
proper  fashion,  but  unless  my  reckon 
ing  is  wrong  we  were  singularly  odd, 
and  I  think  if  the  world  were  aware 
of  what  we  thought  and  said  it  would 
pass  upon  us  with  deprecation  and 
declare  us  hopelessly  impossible. 
9 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO     HER 

You  were  not  quite  on  time,  you 
remember,  and  I  sat  among  the  ori 
ental  pillows  framing  an  accusation — 
you  were  primping.  But  when  you 
finally  came,  your  innate  and  unforced 
daintiness  quashed  the  indictment  and 
I  credited  you  with  having  merely 
missed  your  car. 

Unless  you  do  something  untoward 
to  spoil  the  notion,  I  shall  always  hold 
you  in  my  thought  as  permanently 
trim  and  well-rigged — in  the  matter 
of  apparel  absolutely  reliable  and 
comforting — and  I  base  this  conclu 
sion  not  upon  any  favorable  personal 
prejudice,  but  deduce  it  from  the 
general  premise  that  any  woman  who 
can  look  as  you  looked  on  Saturday 
at  two-ten,  will  look  as  she  ought  to 
10 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO     HER 

look  on  Monday  at  half-past  nine  in 
the  morning. 

As  I  review  the  experience  of  that 
hour  to  which  you  so  graciously  and 
bravely  lent  yourself,  I  am  quite  ready 
to  admit  that  I  like  you, — ready  even 
to  put  it  down  in  black  and  white. 
Surely,  we  meet  at  enough  points  to 
make  friendship  possible  and  cumu 
lative,  for  the  list  of  the  things  to  our 
common  liking  includes  books,  horses, 
pictures,  music,  the  drama,  tolerance, 
life  for  life's  sake,  and  the  relegation 
of  mere  money  to  the  impenetrable 
shades. 

I    think    we    shall    get    on,    and 

prophesy  that  there  will  be  flung  into 

space  a  new  world,  banned,  perhaps, 

by    conservative    astronomers,    but 

ii 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

quite  satisfactory  as  a  habitat  for  the 
two  odd  folk  who  sipped  the  Colonia 
brew,  waived  commonplaces,  and 
traded  thoughts  on  Principle  and 
Destiny. 


THE  TREASURES  OF 
MOROCCO 


On  the  desk  before  me  lies  a 
book  with  uncut  leaves.  I  got  it  only 
today  and  bore  it  to  my  den  with 
the  thrill  of  possession.  Again  and 
again  I  have  touched  it  with  reverent 
hands  and  taken  an  occasional  eyeful 
of  the  beauties  of  its  binding  and 
typography.  But  just  what  is  in  the 
book  I  do  not  know.  It  is  waiting 
for  me  and  it  is  good,  but  the  spirit 
of  haste  is  not  in  me — with  deliberate 
joy  I  delay  the  hour  of  perusal  and 
13 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO     HER 

plan  the  details  of  the  event  as  a  bride 
plans  her  wedding,  for  I  have  learned 
that  reading,  in  its  best  estate,  is  a 
sacrament  of  the  mind,  to  be  cele 
brated  devoutly  and  preceded  by  ex 
pectancy  and  fasting. 

The  author  of  this  book  has  writ 
ten  other  books  which  have  helped  to 
lay  the  rails  on  which  my  thinking 
travels,  and  hence  I  am  in  some  meas 
ure  prepared  for  this  further  reach 
into  the  Great  Land. 

He  is  a  man  who  has  lived  the  Life, 
and  consequently  stands  white  and 
lone  and  courageous,  not  at  the  sum 
mit  but  near  it,  with  uplifted  eyes. 
When  he  writes,  the  comparatively 
small  number  of  men  and  women  who 
are  qualified  and  ready  put  their  eyes 


THE    THINGS    HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

upon  his  page  with  held  breath,  and 
then  go  back  to  their  toil  as  those 
who  have  seen  a  vision  whose  glories 
they  would  fain  transcribe  in  the 
varied  terms  of  daily  life  and  duty. 

Twice  have  I  seen  this  man,  once 
in  the  thronged  street  of  the  city  and 
once  at  the  window  of  the  cottage 
which  will  one  day  be  a  shrine  for 
those  later  generations  who  will  see 
his  work  in  proper  perspective,  hew 
his  likeness  in  stone,  enthrone  it  in 
the  public  square,  and  scramble  to 
touch  the  pen  with  which  he  wrought. 

When  I  saw  him  his  brow  was  un- 
reddened  by  the  press  of  any  crown, 
his  hands  were  without  jewels,  and 
his  shoes  of  the  common  leathern  sort, 
but  I  knew  the  royal  blood  was  in  his 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO     HER 

veins  and  my  spirit  made  fitting 
obeisance. 

They  say  that  Southey,  old  and 
feeble  and  blind,  went  into  his  library 
on  his  last  earth-night,  ran  his  trem 
bling  fingers  over  the  well-worn  bind 
ings  of  his  favorite  books,  bade  them 
one  by  one  an  affectionate  good-by, 
and  then  fell  asleep. 

Oh,  my  friend,  ought  we  not  to 
quicken  our  appreciation  of  those  who 
have  labored  to  communicate  them 
selves  to  us  through  printed  things, 
thereby  breathing  upon  us  the  endless 
benedicite  of  their  philosophy  and 
song? 

I  think  that  among  our  deprivations 
there  is  none  quite  akin  to  this — 
we  are  so  seldom  permitted  to  read 
16 


THE    THINGS    HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

together,  and  then  talk  it  out  in  the 
little  hours  when  the  town  is  still, 
and  all  that  savors  of  greed  and  gain 
is  shamed  into  the  shadows  by  the 
smile  of  the  quiet  stars. 

And  the  leaves  of  the  book  are  still 
uncut ! 

If  I  had  the  power  to  call  you  now, 
and  you  heard  and  came,  I  think  this 
could  just  about  be  reckoned  the 
sacramental  hour. 


TAKING  THE  WRAPPINGS 
FROM  THE  HEART 


I  am  wondering  if  the  baring  of 
a  human  heart  to  your  vision  could 
possibly  bring  you  aught  of  good  this 
day,  particularly  if  that  heart  were 
mine.  Somehow  I  think  it  might. 

This  may  be  only  the  conceit  of  a 
presumptuous  mortal,  but  if  it  be  true 
that  we  feed  upon  our  friends  and 
take  our  life-sap  from  kindred  souls, 
perhaps  the  conceit  may  be  pardoned 
and  the  presumption  softened  into 
sheer  good-will. 

And  you,  of  all  women,  have  the 
18 


THE    THINGS    HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

right  to  know,  for  since  the  Fates,  all 
unbidden,  led  our  feet  to  the  starlit 
river  and  your  eyes  looked  into  mine 
that  way,  what  I  am  is  not  my  own 
property  and  secret.  If  you  were  less 
than  you  are,  less  good,  less  noble, 
less  my  kind,  I  could  run  and  hide, 
and  after  a  time  forget,  but  your  very 
nature  binds  me  to  you,  keeps  me  in 
your  world.  Therefore  it  is  right  for 
me  to  let  you  see  me  as  I  see  my 
self,  come  what  may,  and  if  you 
are  neither  shocked,  surprised  nor 
ashamed,  I  shall  be  glad. 

You  asked  me  once,  you  remember, 
why  I  was  reasonably  happy,  and  I 
put  you  off  with  a  makeshift — told 
you  it  was  because  I  could  not  afford 
to  be  otherwise,  for  the  causes  of 
19 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

happiness,  I  think,  may  not  be  glibly 
given.  In  answering  your  query 
now,  I  bare  my  heart  to  you  and  let 
you  see  what  time  and  tears,  and  a 
few  other  things,  have  put  into  my 
philosophy. 

If  I  am  happy  it  is  because  of  what 
I  believe  and  endeavor  to  express  in 
what  I  do.  These  things  I  hold :  the 
goodness  and  cumulation  of  life;  the 
benevolence  of  the  universe  mani 
fested  in  the  immutability  of  natural 
law;  the  defensive  power  of  silence 
and  non-resistance;  the  glory  of 
labor;  the  sanctity  of  the  body;  the 
debt  of  man  to  woman;  the  ministry 
of  chivalry;  and  the  virtue  and  abso 
lute  legality  of  all  love. 

This   sort   of   thinking   gilds   the 

20 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO     HER 

hours  for  me  and  helps  me  to  feel  at 
sunset  that  the  day,  and  what  hap 
pened  in  it,  was,  perhaps,  not  quite  in 
vain. 

If  these  notions  of  mine  seem  good 
to  you,  reach  across  the  miles  and 
touch  my  forehead  with  your  hand. 
It  will  be  to  me  the  further  seal  of 
mental  comradeship — the  earnest  of 
larger  joys  and  a  lift  to  higher  levels 
with  room  for  at  least  two. 


THE  HINDERING  MILES 


The  postman  was  kind  today. 
He  brought  me  your  letter  and  the 
rest  of  the  things  you  sent,  all  of 
which  interest  me  greatly.  I  am  so 
glad  you  are  succeeding,  but  if  you 
were  not  I  think  I  could  demonstrate 
my  thought  toward  you  even  more 
fully.  The  summit  is  always  easy. 
With  me  the  shadowed  valley  's  the 
thing.  It  tests  the  fiber  of  what  is 
within.  Oh,  that  I  might  speak  all 
the  heart-things  that  seek  egress! 
But  I  am  in  leash.  Strange,  is  n't 
it,  that  I  plead  with  you  to  express 

22 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

yourself — to  let  yourself  go — and 
argue  hotly  that  bondage  is  a  sin,  and 
then  stand  myself,  tied  and  dumb,  in 
the  presence  of  your  wondrousness ! 
But  this  silence  is  only  one  of  the 
passing  impositions  of  distance,  and 
when  you  are  near  again,  so  near  that 
I  can  hear  the  beating  of  your  heart, 
it  seems  as  if  our  little  world  must 
needs  be  vocal  with  the  words  which 
are  now  in  prison.  What  number  of 
months  did  you  mention  in  your  last 
letter?  Was  it  eight?  Ah  me! 
But  there  is  much  for  us  each  to  do, 
and  life  and  hope  and  courage  are  re 
newed  with  each  day's  sun. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  BARTER 


A  boy  should   respect   what   is 
given  him  and  cherish  it. 

This  is  the  theory  fine  and  prim, 
but  the  world  is  full  of  boys  whose 
real  treasures  are  in  other  door-yards. 
Once,  when  I  was  little  and  had  a 
stone-bruise  on  my  foot,  my  father 
gave  me  (oh,  wondrous  consolation!) 
a  steel  magnet.  The  handle-part  was 
painted  red  and  there  was  a  bar  across 
the  poles  to  complete  the  circuit  and 
hold  the  power  in.  It  was  a  costly 
affair,  very  scientific  and,  in  the  judg 
ment  of  the  aged,  just  the  thing  to  fill 
24 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

a  lad's  eye,  stimulate  his  hunger  for 
a  knowledge  of  physics,  and  make 
him  forget  stone-bruises  and  kindred 
woes.  But,  having  the  magnet,  I  in 
ventoried  it  low,  and  went  into  the 
village  to  seek  its  riddance  and  the 
possession  of  some  substitutional  joy 
whose  handle  was  not  red,  whose 
make-up  and  mission  were  unscien 
tific  and  relatively  sodden. 

And  the  village  promptly  furnished 
the  opportunity  in  the  person  of  a 
brown  urchin,  who  produced  from 
pockets  of  measureless  depths  a  whip 
lash,  and  a  sky-hued  butterfly  of  a 
species  new  to  me. 

On  these  I  set  covetous  eye  and 
bartered  my  magnet  for  them  with 
eager  haste.  The  wings  of  the  but- 
25 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

terfly  were  rubbed  and  broken,  and 
in  due  season  I  received  the  marks  of 
the  whiplash  upon  my  small  body,  but 
my  nature  had  asserted  itself,  had 
longed,  reached  out  and  taken,  had 
come  into  its  own,  and  that,  after  all, 
and  that  only,  IS  LIFE. 

When  I  was  a  boy  no  more  and  had 
begun  to  sense  the  length  and  diffi 
culty  of  the  Way;  when  my  friends 
with  gentle  glee  pointed  chaffing 
fingers  at  the  hints  of  silver  on  my 
temples ;  when  my  heart  was  hard  hit 
with  the  missiles  of  Disappointment 
and  Delay,  and  Fate  with  paternal 
tenderness  and  well-meant  generosity 
had  heaped  my  hands  with  compensa 
tory  things,  designed  to  comfort  and 
assuage,  the  old  spirit  of  discontent 
26 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

and  hunger  for  the  Unpossessed 
surged  through  me  like  a  flood,  and 
again  I  went  into  the  village — and 
you  were  there ! 

If  the  world  knew  what  happened 
in  the  village,  it  would  doubtless 
argue,  from  its  viewpoint,  the  differ 
ence  between  what  I  gave  and  what  I 
got,  allege  that  the  wings  of  the  but 
terfly  were  rubbed  and  broken,  and 
foretell  the  falling  of  the  lash,  but 
with  me  the  soul's  demand  is  sacred ; 
a  trade  's  a  trade ;  only  our  own  can 
call  us;  life  is  good;  and  the  heights 
beckon.  Let  us  climb  them,  you  and 
I,  strong  with  the  strength  of  two, 
and  vibrant  with  the  thrill  of  Comple 
ment  and  Content. 


THE  UNDERSTANDING 

"8 


This  has  been  a  busy  day  for  me 
— press  of  detail,  clash  of  interests, 
honest  difference  between  the  minds 
who  run  our  commercial  concern.  At 
noon  I  knew  I  would  be  tired  tonight 
— overtired — and  resolved  not  to 
write  to  you,  fearing  a  laggard  pen 
and  thoughts  trivial  and  unworthy. 

But  the  Mood  has  its  hands  at  my 
throat — there  is  something  I  want  to 
say,  and  I  ask  for  grace  to  say  it  well, 
for  it  relates  to  the  fiber  which  enters 
into  our  structure,  and  it  is  agreed 
between  us  that  we  are  to  build  strong 
28 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

— a  house  that  will  not  topple  in  the 
wind. 

When  you  came  into  my  life  your 
girlhood  lay  behind;  you  were  a 
woman,  fair  and  full  and  round,  with 
a  woman's  heart,  and  a  woman's 
mind,  and  a  woman's  point  of  view. 
Your  lips,  also,  were  the  lips  of  a 
woman,  and  likewise  your  feelings 
and  desires.  There  were  numerous 
people  in  your  world,  you  had  seen 
different  lands,  you  knew  many 
things,  and  had  been  broadened  and 
vitalized  by  experience.  In  other 
words,  you  had  lived  and  longed  to 
live  more,  and  it  was  that,  I  think, 
which  caught  and  held  me. 

You  will  remember  that  I  have 
never  asked  you  to  tell  me  the  story 
29 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO     HER 

of  those  former  days,  never  put  a 
pencil  in  your  hand  and  tried  to  get 
you  to  trace  a  map  of  your  mental  and 
affectional  journeyings.  This  lack  of 
curiosity  on  my  part  is  due  to  my 
belief  in  a  certain  principle  which  I 
hold  tenaciously  and  declare  almost 
with  fierceness, — a  woman  is  what  she 
is,  and  must  be  considered  apart  from 
her  environment  and  detached  from 
all  the  former  things  in  her  life.  For 
every  woman,  in  order  that  she  may 
be  a  woman,  is  dowered  with  sex,  and 
sex  is  forever  creating  conditions 
which  can  never  be  satisfactorily  ex 
plained  before  any  minor  judgment 
seat. 

What  I  know  of  your  life  is  what 
you   have  been  pleased  to  tell  me. 
30 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO     HER 

You  are  the  product  of  your  yester 
days,  and  later  will  be  the  further 
product  of  your  tomorrows.  You 
hold  your  place  in  my  life,  not  because 
of  what  you  have  been,  but  because 
of  what  you  are,  and  what  you  may 
become.  You  need  relate  to  me 
nothing.  I  desire  neither  apology 
nor  explanation.  I  take  you  by  and 
large,  and  wager  my  all  upon  the 
quality  of  your  womanhood,  present 
and  yet  to  be. 

As  for  myself,  this:  there  are 
things  in  every  man's  life  which  can 
not  be  told,  things  which  are  made 
possible  by  the  dross  that  was  put  into 
his  making  without  his  knowledge  or 
consent,  things  whose  telling  would 
add  not  one  whit  to  the  happiness  of 
31 


his  kind  or  the  general  good  of  the 
universe.  And  I  am  a  man,  with  all 
that  implies,  and  am  glad  of  it, 
through  and  through.  My  past  is 
like  the  common  run,  in  that  it  is  not 
all  that  it  should  have  been,  but  it  is 
my  past,  the  best  one  I  could  make 
with  the  tools  I  had  to  work  with,  and 
I  shall  neither  repudiate  it  nor  wear 
myself  thin  regretting  its  imperfec 
tions.  Whatever  I  know,  it  taught 
me,  and  I  count  my  investment  in  its 
tuition  the  best  I  have  ever  made.  It 
is  better  to  aspire  than  to  repine,  and 
to  be  worthy  of  you,  to  have  a  place 
by  your  side  in  the  lilt  and  onward- 
ness  of  life,  will  be  about  the  cleanest 
desire  my  heart  can  entertain. 

And  (I  almost  forgot)  what  about 
32 


THE    THINGS    HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

those  former  days,  yours  and  mine? 
I  guess  it  would  be  well  to  seal  the 
early  volumes  of  our  personal  story 
and  concern  ourselves  chiefly  with  the 
rest  of  the  set. 

Shall  we  strike  hands  and  call  it  a 
bargain  ? 


33 


THE  EARTH,  THE  HORSE, 
AND  THE  WOMAN 


This  was  a  morning  among 
mornings — bright,  cool  and  glorious. 
I  am  indebted  to  the  sun  for  calling 
me  so  early,  and  to  the  cold  water 
which  fell  upon  my  head  and  body, 
putting  a  finishing  touch  to  my  awak 
ening,  and  making  me  ready  for  food 
and  the  subsequent  out-of-doors. 
Where  do  you  think  I  went  and  what 
do  you  think  I  did? 

Astride  a  thoroughbred  of  old  Vir 
ginia,  easy  and  fleet,  with  neck  re- 
34 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO     HER 

sponsive  to  the  slightest  rein-touch, 
her  fine-fibered  undulant  frame  at 
tuned  to  my  wish  and  will,  I  rocked 
through  the  land  serenaded  by  locusts 
and  companioned  by  thoughts  of  you. 
Down  green-roofed  aisles  of  beech 
and  poplar,  through  sanded  vales 
threaded  by  satin  streams,  up  little 
banks  where  fragrant  grasses  grow, 
'round  ponds  with  sloping  shores  and 
shallow  inlets,  through  squirreled 
copses,  past  heroned  marshes,  I  rode 
and  rode,  occasionally  letting  go  an 
ejaculatory  prayer  of  thankfulness. 
The  world  seemed  literally  brimming 
with  good,  and  my  heart  sent  back 
Despondency's  card  and  instructed 
them  to  tell  him  I  was  not  at  home. 
Surely,  this  have  I  found,  that  there 
35 


THE    THINGS    HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

is  something  in  the  back  of  a  horse 
and  one's  memory  of  a  woman  that 
takes  the  sting  out  of  life  and  makes 
one  plan  for  more  canters  and  more 
memories, — that  is  if  the  horse  be 
yours — your  very  own — and  the 
woman  yours,  too, — both  fitted  to  you 
by  the  kindly,  skilful  Fates,  purveyors 
of  the  best,  who  sit  in  the  far  secluded 
corners  of  the  mart  where  the  soul 
does  its  buying. 

Oh,  really,  my  lady,  you  need  not 
be  troubled!  I  am  not  straining 
things  to  lift  the  horse  to  your  plane 
in  the  scheme  of  the  universe.  I  am 
merely  saying  that  joy  is  joy;  intelli 
gence  is  intelligence;  comradeship  is 
comradeship;  fidelity  is  fidelity;  and 
love  is  love,  no  matter  with  what  man- 
36 


THE    THINGS    HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

ner  of  silk  their  enfolding  bodies  may 
be  adorned. 

And  for  all  these  things  which  I 
have  found  in  you  and  otherwhere — 
chiefly  in  you — I  thank  the  good  God, 
and  reach  for  more,  insatiate. 

I  believe  that  tomorrow  will  be 
another  day.  May  the  gold  of  its 
morning  be  your  riches,  and  the  glow 
of  its  evening  your  benediction ! 


THE  PEDESTAL 


You  once  said  that  the  pedestal 
upon  which  I  have  placed  you  is  too 
high  —  not  for  the  looks  of  the  thing 
but  for  the  truth  of  it,  and  that  your 
fall,  if  a  fall  happened,  would  be  a  far 
one  and  result  in  a  fearful  shattering. 
I  would  have  you  know,  my 
madame  of  modesty,  that  this  pedestal 
is  not  an  accident;  it  was  not  thrown 
up  by  some  compelling  chance.  I 
built  it  myself  and  its  form  and  height 
were  determined  upon  with  careful 
deliberation.  You  are  high  in  my 
thought,  worthy  of  the  light  on  all 
38 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO     HER 

sides,  and  a  dark,  low  niche  under  the 
eaves,  while  doubtless  conservative 
and  safe,  would  not  comport  with  my 
conception  of  your  texture  and 
dignity  and  character.  The  kind  of 
thought  which  I  hold  toward  you  is 
never  content  with  anything  less  than 
the  utter  enthronement  of  its  objec 
tive,  and  the  thought  itself  is  the  ear 
nest  of  the  ultimate  regality  of  the 
one  who,  perhaps  in  advance  of  per 
fect  realization,  is  deemed  noble  and 
strong. 

Sometimes  love  is  a  noun  and  some 
times  it  is  a  verb,  but  always  it  is  a 
lever  to  lift  the  loved  and  make  it  in 
trinsically  fit  to  dwell  in  the  environ 
ment  of  altitude  and  light.  And  love, 
the  lever,  works  without  being  indi- 
39 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO     HER 

vidually  conscious  of  its  task.  It 
works  easily  and  well,  and  because  it 
is  love  it  vaunteth  not  itself,  is  not 
puffed  up,  and  finds  its  joy,  not  in  its 
own  being  and  essence,  but  in  seeing 
its  object  achieve  the  high  place  and 
hold  it  by  sheer  right  of  beauty  and 
power. 

You  doubtless  have  your  flaws — 
such  things  are  still  incident  to 
Nature  and  humanity;  there  was 
never  yet  a  perfect  rose  nor  a  perfect 
woman — but  I  shall  abate  my  thought 
of  you  not  one  whit  because  of  them. 
No  matter  what  you  may  think  you 
have  of  mental  bias,  or  misdirected 
desire,  or  instinct  untrained,  or  whim, 
caprice  or  unreason,  I  have  set  my 
heart  upon  you,  your  being  and  be- 
40 


THE    THINGS    HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

coming.  The  pedestal  stands  as  I 
made  it,  full  height,  white  from  base 
to  cornice,  and  all  the  laws  of  creative 
and  upholding  love  must  be  annulled 
before  any  crash  can  rend  the  sweet 
silence  of  my  Temple  of  Dreams. 

So  there  now!  Be  assured,  and 
remember  that  the  best  way  to  get  rid 
of  dizziness  is  to  accept  the  elevation 
and  regard  the  good  universe  as  in 
cluding  the  heights  as  well  as  the 
depths. 


THE  FEAST  AND  THE  FIRE 


There  was  a  dinner  tonight,  a 
very  tangible  dinner,  with  white 
lights,  and  pink  women,  and  red  wine, 
and  deft  servers,  and  food  fit  for  Epi 
curus,  and  music — music  lit  with 
yellow  rising  suns  and  shot  with 
laughter  and  tears,  hope  and  despair. 
And  to  this  dinner  I  was  invited, 
and  to  this  dinner  I  did  not  go,  elect 
ing  instead  to  take  my  hour  with  you 
— to  open  my  lodge  at  your  knock ;  to 
break  with  you  the  unleavened  bread 
of  fellowship;  to  drink  with  you  the 
rare  old  wine  from  the  Cask  of  Life; 
42 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

to  hear  with  you  the  music  of  that 
wondrous  lute  whose  strings  seem  to 
lie  ever  docile  beneath  the  quick, 
white  fingers  of  our  kindly  Destiny — 
strains  that  would  slay  those  who 
have  come  by  lower  paths  into  lesser 
experiences. 

And  now  that  we  are  together  and 
alone — though  between  our  bodies  a 
continent  lies  and  the  universal  stars 
look  mercilessly  down — let  the  feast 
begin,  and  the  wine  flow,  and  the  lute 
release  its  melody ! 

Well,  we  have  eaten,  and  drunk, 
and  harkened,  and  all  was  good.  Is 
it  not  so  ? 

And  now  I  will  shade  the  light  and 
we  will  be  quiet  awhile.  Let  us  look 
43 


THE    THINGS    HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

together  at  what  is  happening  in  the 
grate,  and  talk  little.  Souls  on  the 
same  plane  may  be  satisfied  with 
mere  nearness — proximity  is  enough. 
Words,  after  all,  are  but  vehicles  for 
ideas  to  ride  in,  and  when  once  an 
understanding  is  reached,  speech  may 
be  mostly  put  aside  and  communica 
tion  merged  into  communion.  This 
is  the  soul's  highest  revel  and  the 
aftermath  is  a  clearer  vision,  an  ardor 
for  life,  and  an  appreciation  of  the  lit 
tle  tasks  which  fill  the  average  day 
and  give  heart,  hand  and  brain  their 
legitimate  employ. 

Is  not  the  silence  truly  sweet  and 
golden?  Is  aught  missing? 

Lie  close  and — see,  the  log  has 
broken  in  twain,  the  flame's  swift  play 
44 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

has  lessened  for  sheer  lack  of  some 
thing  to  feed  upon,  the  embers  are 
paling,  and  the  gray  ashes  are  more 
and  more!  I  fain  would  hold  you 
through  the  coming  chill — we  might 
be  warm  together — but  the  hour  is  up. 
You  were  most  kind  to  come.  I  am 
armored  for  the  morrow.  It  was 
good  that  I  did  not  go  to  the  dinner. 


45 


PHOTOGRAPHS 


Naples — you  must  be  there  for 
from  thence  the  packet  came,  its  rug 
ged  wrapping  tied  bafflingly  with 
stout  hemp.  Twine  is  cheaper  than 
time  and  it  is  my  habit  to  cut  it  and 
fling  the  bits  to  the  four  winds,  but 
alas,  you  are  a  spoiler  of  prudent 
habits.  I  fumbled  at  the  knots  nerve 
lessly  and  lashed  myself  into  an 
ecstasy  of  anticipation,  for  were  not 
you  within  and  had  I  not  spent  hours, 
literally  hours,  wondering  where  you 
had  put  that  new  six  pounds  which 
46 


THE    THINGS    HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

you  wrote  you  had  filched  from  the 
Continent?  Never  were  knots  so 
hard  to  undo,  and  never  before  did  a 
real,  human  woman  make  six  more 
alluring  and  charmingly  different  bids 
for  masculine  capitulation ! 

When  the  riot  within  me  was 
partially  put  down  by  a  compromise- 
indulgence  of  eyes  and  lips,  I  made  a 
sort  of  descriptive  tabulation  which 
runs  like  this : 

The  One  with  the  Smile 

The  One  with  the  Hair 

The  One  with  the  Eyes 

The  Dreamy  One 

The  Sweet  One 

and 
The  One  with  the  Soul 

Choose,  did  you  say  choose,  with 
the  whole  outfit  in  my  possession,  and 

47 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO     HER 

you,  the  arch  miser,  way  on  the  other 
side  of  the  ocean?  Well,  if  I  must, 
I  must.  I  guess  I  will  take  the  One 
with  the  Soul,  particularly  as  it  also 
seems  to  carry  with  it  mind  and  body 
and  the  daintiest  gown  I  ever  saw  you 
in — and  that 's  saying  a  lot.  Please 
to  forget  never,  that  because  what  you 
are  appeals  to  me,  I  am  not  at  all 
sleepy  about  what  you  have  on.  The 
highway  to  human  enchantment,  I 
have  heard,  is  well-decked  with  the 
furbelow  flower.  So  be  it,  and  may 
the  Lord  bless  the  dressmakers  and 
forgive  their  many  sins. 

No,  on  second  thought,   I   won't 

choose — just  simply  won't  unless  you 

let  me  do  it  like  the  last  child  before 

the  jeweler's   window.     There   they 

48 


THE    THINGS    HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

stand  on  the  hot  sidewalk,  first  on  one 
bare  foot  and  then  on  the  other,  tat 
tered  and  penniless,  Mary  and  Betty 
and  John,  the  innocent  covetousness 
of  childhood  running  free  among  the 
gems  lying  in  purple  state  behind  the 
pitiless  and  sufficient  glass. 

"I  choose  the  rubies,"  says  Mary: 
"I  choose  the  diamonds,"  cries  Betty: 
"And  I,"  shrieks  John,  with  appro 
priate  crescendo  and  a  monopolistic 
sweep  of  his  grimy  hand,  "I  choose 
everything!'' 

John's  choice  is  my  choice — every 
thing, — and  you  will  just  have  to  sub 
mit. 

In  a  row  on  my  dresser?  No,  in 
deed!  The  housemaid  has  profane 
eyes  and,  besides,  I  should  not  like  to 
49 


THE    THINGS    HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

think  of  you  as  the  Queen  of  the 
Velox  Parade.  You  shall  have  a  lit 
tle  dark  domain  all  to  yourself,  and 
only  when  I  say  so  shall  you  stand  re 
vealed,  and  the  audience  will  be  very, 
very  small,  but  thoroughly  capable  of 
what  the  newspapers  call  "tumultuous 
applause." 

Bend  down,  I  want  to  whisper 
something.  I  have  rented  a  safety- 
deposit  box  so  many  inches  by  so 
many  inches  and  at  so  much  per 
quarter,  and  there  is  also  a  quiet  little 
room  where  one  can  go  and  be  alone 
with  what  one  sets  store  by.  In  a 
certain  city,  it  is  said,  a  woman  came 
twice  a  week  to  one  of  these  places, 
staying  a  half-hour  each  time.  She 
was  a  pale  woman  in  a  black  dress. 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO     HER 

By  and  by  she  did  n't  come  any  more, 
neither  did  she  call  to  surrender  her 
key,  all  of  which  was  perplexing 
to  the  safety-deposit  people.  After 
waiting  a  suitable  time  and  trying 
hard  to  find  her,  but  without  success, 
they  broke  into  the  compartment  to 
see  what  bonds  and  valuables  she  had, 
and  found — a  tress  of  yellow  hair,  a 
little  shoe  worn  through  at  the  heel, 
and  a  baby's  rattle ! 

And  now  I  have  my  box  and  my 
key  and  my  treasure,  and  when  I  call, 
the  fat  and  uniformed  warden  of 
wealth  will  bow  and  smile  and  let  me 
in  and  shut  the  door  and  stand  out 
side  and  tap  the  tessellated  floor  with 
his  foot  and  think  that  I  am  cutting 
coupons ! 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

But  I  hate  Naples.     It  is  so  far 
away. 


A  GRAY  DAY 


This  is  what  I  call  a  gray  day. 
The  sun  seems  to  be  away  from  home, 
and  the  tintless  clouds,  slow  and 
heavy,  hang  sullenly  below  the  moun 
tain-tops,  veritable  loafers  of  the  sky. 

It  is  n't  raining,  but  wants  to  and 
probably  will. 

The  summer  is  hardly  what  it  was 
a  fortnight  ago.  There  is  a  hint  of 
chill  in  the  air,  and  here  and  there  a 
young  maple  has  gone  into  the  browns 
and  reds  under  the  first  touch  of  the 
frost's  silver  hand  and  stands  out,  a 
53 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO     HER 

lambent  silhouette,  against  the  back 
ground  of  forest  green. 

And,  apart  from  the  changes  in  ex 
pression  on  Nature's  face,  two  great 
things  have  happened.  Yesterday, 
while  I  was  fishing,  a  cedar  waxwing 
lit  on  my  rod  and  executed  a  graceful 
trick  in  balancing — it  was  a  pretty 
circus — and  the  day  before  that  I 
drove  a  furlong  with  a  butterfly 
perched  on  either  rein,  waving  glori 
ous  wings  in  the  sunlight!  I  reckon 
that,  as  events  go,  these  outrank  in 
importance  the  fall  of  Port  Arthur. 
They  were  certainly  quieter  and  in 
volved  no  greed  or  blood-letting, 
points  which,  in  my  thinking,  are  de 
cidedly  in  their  favor. 

I  wish  your  eyes  might  have  been 
54 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

here  just  now  to  see  what  my  eyes 
saw. 

I  am  sitting  very  near  to  the  edge 
of  the  hill-guarded  lake.  The  mob 
on  the  veranda  was  noisy  with  cheap 
chatter  and  so  hither  I  fled, — I  trust 
with  due  decorum.  The  lake  is  as 
still  and  quietly  joyous  as  a  human 
heart  which  has  reached  the  end  of 
its  quest,  and  a  moment  ago,  within 
ten  feet  of  where  I  am  sitting,  a  brook 
trout  leapt  clear  of  the  water,  traced 
the  image  of  his  beauty  upon  my 
retina,  and  then  dropped  back  into  the 
clear,  cold  water,  leaving  behind  a 
hint  of  the  hues  and  emotions  which 
lie  beneath  the  surface  of  this  moun 
tain  lake.  It  was  only  a  little  joy  and 
a  fleeting  one  but  it  was  real  and  clean 
55 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

and  natural  and  worth  while,  and  I 
wish  we  might  have  beheld  and  ex 
claimed  together.  And  now  it  occurs 
to  me  that,  in  the  life  of  the  trout, 
that  leap  was  a  matter  of  some  im 
portance,  an  achievement  whose  in 
spiration  was  either  hunger,  pleasure 
or  fear.  Perhaps  the  trout  darted 
upward  for  a  fly  on  the  surface  of 
the  water,  perhaps  his  leap  into 
another  element  was  due  to  sheer  joy 
in  life  and  motion,  or  perhaps  he  was 
seeking  to  escape  from  the  maw  of  a 
larger  and  pursuing  fish. 

I  think  I  must  have  leaped  into  your 
sunlight  actuated  by  one  or  more  of 
these  motives.  Hunger  in  my  life 
was  a  daily  distress — hunger  of  heart 
and  mind  and  soul.  I  craved  com- 
56 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO     HER 

panionship,  the  nearness  of  one  whose 
very  presence  could  nourish  and  edify 
me.  Also  I  was  infatuated  with  life, 
eager  for  the  thrill  of  new  experi 
ences,  seeking  the  investment  of 
sympathy  and  devotion  in  some  heart- 
enterprise  worthy  and  satisfying; 
and,  again,  I  was  chased  by  the  fear 
that  the  love-elements  of  my  nature 
would  be  forever  hived,  and  atrophy 
for  sheer  lack  of  expression — that  my 
life,  failing  to  achieve  its  complement, 
would  build  itself  without  symmetry, 
ugly  and  brittle,  a  warning  rather 
than  an  exemplar  to  those  who  might 
behold  it. 

But  whatever  the  motive  I  am  glad 
for  the  leap.     You  have  not  disap 
pointed  me,  and  even  the  grayness  of 
57 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO     HER 

this  day  is  translated  into  brilliance 
in  the  vision  with  which  you  have  en 
dowed  me. 

And  because  you  have  helped  me  to 
look  upon  the  world  with  new  and 
seeing  eyes,  because  you  lend  the 
touch  of  song  to  the  prose  of  small 
happenings  and  fit  wings  to  my 
imagination  and  aspirations,  I  long 
to  have  you  with  me,  literally  with  me, 
everywhere  and  always.  Even  as 
things  are,  this  gray  day  is  a  good 
day.  But  I  need  you  by  me  on  the 
shore !  The  sandpiper  tilting  on  the 
bar;  the  reed  diamonded  with  mist; 
the  echo  of  the  woodman's  halloo 
among  the  hills;  the  dependableness 
of  Nature;  these,  with  certain 
58 


THE    THINGS    HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

memories  and  certain  hopes,  comfort 
me. 


59 


POSING 


Hold  your  sides,  please,  and  get 
ready. 

I  am  being  done  in  oil !  Not  boiled 
in  it  like  a  martyr,  nor  packed  in  it 
like  a  sardine,  nor  buncoed  in  it  like 
a  small  investor,  but  just  painted  in  it 
like  a  knight,  a  millionaire  or  an 
actor. 

My,  but  it  hurts !  Posing  is  some 
thing  woful.  I  used  to  think  a  den 
tist,  with  his  gouges  and  drills  and 
buzz-saws  was  the  devil,  but  for  bland 
and  diabolical  imposition  of  physical 
torture  he  is  n't  to  be  named  with  the 
60 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

quiet  and  mild-mannered  woman-of- 
the-brushes  who  comes  at  nine,  paints 
till  twelve  and  then  goes  at  it  again 
at  half-past  one.  She  gets  all 
wrapped  up  in  her  work  and  seems  to 
think  that  a  man  has  calves  of  gold, 
feet  of  clay,  torso  of  steel  and  a  smile 
as  durable  as  Rogers  1847. 

Personally,  I  did  n't  take  much 
stock  in  the  portrait  idea  but  my 
blessed  relatives  insisted  that  some 
sort  of  a  correct  impression  should  be 
conveyed  to  posterity,  and  so  I  gave 
in.  I  suggested  a  photograph,  col 
ored  if  necessary,  but  they  reminded 
me  that  this  is  a  world  of  fly-specks 
and  said  it  ought  to  be  something  that 
could  be  "washed  off"  with  soap  and 
water.  Posterity  indeed!  Think  of 
61 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

posterity  standing  in  a  row  in  the  par 
lor  in  front  of  this  imperishable  can 
vas,  and  saying — "Look  at  Uncle. 
Was  n't  he  a  sight !" 

What  kind  of  a  frame  do  you  sug 
gest? 


EMANCIPATION 


When,  in  the  early  days  of  our 
acquaintance,  I  reached  what  I 
thought  was  a  proper  appraisement 
of  your  worth  as  a  woman  —  your 
worth  to  me  —  I  felt  as  if  I  must  set 
you  off  by  yourself  as  a  man  sets  off 
a  park  for  his  own  enjoyment, 
beautifies  it,  gloats  over  his  title  to 
the  land,  and  builds  fences  to  keep 
people  out.  I  felt  that  your  hours, 
your  thoughts  and  your  beauty  were 
utterly  mine,  and  sought  to  thrust  an 
arbitrary  and  defensive  hand  between 
you  and  all  encroachment,  hating 
63 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO     HER 

every  footstep  that  seemed  to  go  your 
way.  By  the  sheer  right  of  our  rela 
tion  I  would  have  you  and  hold  you 
for  my  very  own  and  for  all  time. 

But  I  have  changed;  I  have  been 
taught  many  things;  I  have  come  to 
see  the  futility  of  force  in  the  realm 
where  human  hearts  play  the  game 
Nature  has  set  for  them. 

Therefore,  with  deliberate  hand  I 
lengthen  your  tether,  yea,  loose  it 
altogether.  You  are  free,  or,  if  you 
please,  holden  only  by  the  limits  which 
are  fixed  by  your  own  will. 

I  want  you  to  know  other  men,  not 
a  few,  but  many.  If  a  man  is  thrown 
your  way,  and  seems  interesting,  em 
ploy — I  desire  it — all  necessary  time 
and  means  to  arrive  at  what  he  really 
64 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

is.  Give  to  him  all  that  you  have  for 
him,  and  take  from  him  all  that  he 
has  for  you.  You  are  a  wonderful 
woman  and  should  be  shared,  and  the 
world  holds  many  men  who  are  bright 
and  strong,  capable  of  appealing  to 
you  in  ways  that  I  cannot.  Know 
them,  I  say,  know  them  well,  and 
come  my  way  only  when  your  heart 
drives  you  thither — only  when  your 
own  gage  proclaims  the  proportions 
of  my  nature  ample  to  command  and 
appease  you. 

Do  not  misunderstand  me.  Mine 
is  the  recklessness  of  justice  and  wis 
dom.  If  I  play  thus  fast  and  loose 
with  you,  it  is  not  because  I  do  not 
want  you  any  more,  but  because  it  is 
best,  the  only  true  way,  for  I  believe 
65 


THE    THINGS    HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

the  soul  is  dowered  with  the  right  of 
experience  and  exploration,  and  that 
love  cannot  be  placed  as  we  will, — 
here  or  there  or  yonder, — but  will  find 
its  own  as  surely  as  the  dew  finds  the 
lily  that  lifts  its  frond  in  the  glad 
sweet  dawn. 

The  door  of  your  cage,  my  lady,  is 
open  and  held  back;  the  sunlight  is 
upon  the  hyacinths ;  the  breeze  is  stir 
ring  the  young  leaves  of  the  maples; 
and  I  am  listening  for  the  fluttering 
of  wings! 


66 


AT  MIDNIGHT 


My  heart  and  the  clock  agree 
that  it  is  midnight.  Three  bulbs 
over  my  table  indicate  that  some 
wires  that  carry  light  are  still  strung, 
that  some  dynamo  is  still  vital,  that 
some  workmen  have  their  aprons  on 
as  usual  and  are  doubtless  mixing 
their  toil  with  banter  about  the  last 
dance,  or  the  twins  that  came  to 
McCarthy's  house  when  McCarthy 
was  on  a  spree.  But  for  me  there  is 
no  light,  no  power,  no  badinage.  My 
recollection  of  the  good  yesterday 
mocks  me,  the  anticipation  of  tomor- 
67 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

row  terrifies  me,  and  the  poignant 
pain  that  came  with  today,  grew  with 
it,  and  is  outlasting  it,  is  hell. 

I  suppose  that  every  man  must  take 
what  comes  with  his  nature — must 
pay  the  price  that  is  asked  for  having 
his  particular  kind  of  a  soul.  Hence, 
if  I  am  impelled  from  within  to  do 
and  dare  in  a  foe-peopled  land,  I  must 
take  the  wounds  and  loss  of  blood 
which  go  with  doing  and  daring;  if 
I  make  a  bid  for  Life  and  Light,  I 
must  expect  the  balance  to  be  pre 
served — that  Death  and  Darkness 
will  also  be  knocked  down  to  me. 

This  is  the  philosophy,  and  I  love 
it  and  play  it  at  every  turn  of  the 
wheel,  but,  God,  how  dark  it  is  to 
night,  and  to  what  depths  of  disap- 
68 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

pointment  and  suffering  is  my  heart 
consigned!  I  would  that  I  might 
drink  myself  into  unconsciousness, 
but  that  seems  reserved  for  those 
who  can  do  it — it  is  not  for  me — I 
must  bear  the  curse  and  mark  of 
sobriety,  slumber  not,  and  keep  my 
pale  face  against  the  pane,  looking 
out  into  the  darkness,  straining  my 
eyes  for  a  glimpse  of — nothing, 
nothing! 

You  need  not  expect  me  to  put  on 
paper  the  particular  happening  which 
makes  this  a  black  day  in  my  calendar, 
— indeed  it  is  not  necessary,  for  I 
think  you  sense  it  from  afar.  But 
this  is  written:  when  a  dream-child, 
brought  into  the  world  by  the  travail 
of  one  who  loves  his  kind,  is  strangled 
69 


THE    THINGS    HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

by  the  strong,  yellow  hands  of  Greed 
and  Selfishness,  it  cuts  deep  into  the 
soul  and  curtains  the  sky. 

I  am  alone,  and  down,  and  it  is 
dark. 

Are  you  afraid  of  the  dark?  Does 
the  wind  appal  you?  When  the  sails 
rend  like  gossamer  and  the  spars  are 
as  punk  in  the  gale,  do  you  tremble 
and  crouch  and  pray? 

I  am  looking  for  some  one  who  is 
strong,  some  one  whose  courage  feeds 
on  disaster,  whose  lips  keep  their 
crimson  when  hope  is  burnt  to  a  white 
ash  and  the  leer  of  the  world  is  flung 
at  the  soul  in  defeat. 

I  guess  there  must  be  a  God,  but, 
oh,  I  am  weak  and  tired — your  arms, 

your  arms! : 

70 


THE  DAWN 


It  is  morning  and  all  is  well. 
The  shallows  of  the  glistening  river 
sing  over  their  white  stones,  the 
flowers  have  opened  to  greet  the  day, 
and  the  goldfinch  wings  his  undulant 
way,  prodigally  spilling  his  melody 
into  every  ear  that  has  learned  to  be 
attent. 

And  this  was  the  day  I  feared,  the 
day  from  which  I  shrank  as  if  it  con 
tained  a  noose  suspended  over  a  scaf 
fold  of  rough  pine  ! 

I  was  early  awake.  As  a  gipsy 
girl  rises  and  washes  her  face  in  the 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO     HER 

brook  and  runs  back  to  the  tent  to 
waken  her  lover  with  a  kiss,  so  the 
rays  of  the  voluptuous  sun  stole 
through  the  crevices  of  the  Venetian 
blind  at  my  chamber  window  and 
wooed  me  into  consciousness  by  their 
caress.  And  then  I  remembered  a 
letter  written  to  you  at  midnight,  the 
call  to  you  which  it  contained,  and — 
what  happened  afterward. 

I  am  more  than  half  persuaded  that 
you  already  know  what  I  am  now 
going  to  write,  and  if  so  I  want  you 
to  tell  me,  for  the  fact  of  such  knowl 
edge  would  be  of  the  utmost  impor 
tance  in  the  establishment  of  certain 
phenomena  whose  proofs,  up  to  the 
present  time,  have  been  most  slender 
and  rare. 

72 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO     HER 

After  I  had  finished  that  letter  to 
you  (which  I  enclose  herewith)  I 
turned  the  electric  switch  which 
governs  the  light  in  the  library,  and 
leaned  forward  in  my  chair,  resting 
my  face  on  my  palms  and  gazing 
thro'  the  darkness,  at  the  last  ember 
in  the  grate.  It  was  all  that  was  left 
of  the  glorious  fire  which  had  dealt 
so  skilfully  with  the  evening  chill, 
snapping  with  sheer  ardor  for  its  task 
and  actually  needing  the  chimney's 
channel  for  the  escape  of  its  surplus 
zeal.  And  now  the  bit  of  charred 
and  smoking  maple,  with  its  single 
waning  point  of  light  almost  ready  to 
succumb  to  the  darkness,  seemed  to 
symbolize  my  heart  and  hope.  That 
was  why  I  looked  at  it  and  sensed  a 
73 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

sort  of  grim  fellowship  with  the 
ember's  despair. 

Between  the  library  and  reception 
hall  there  is  a  wide  opening  fitted  with 
sliding  oaken  doors  and  hung  with 
plain,  heavy  portieres  of  linen,  in 
color  dark  green.  While  it  bears  no 
relation  to  the  matter  in  question,  I 
might  say  that  the  linen  thread  in 
these  portieres  was  spun  from  the 
flax  and  woven  by  the  hands  of  my 
mother's  mother  and,  in  woof  and 
dye,  the  fabric  appears  to  be  quite 
imperishable. 

I  had  closed  the  doors  and  released 
the  portieres  so  that  they  hung  full 
over  them — for  was  I  not  to  open  my 
heart  to  you,  and  did  not  adequate 
expression  require  the  sense  and  spur 
74 


THE    THINGS    HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

of  entire  seclusion?  When  one  tells 
to  the  only  other  one  how  one  feels 
when  the  battle  goes  wrong  and  the 
flag  is  struck,  can  the  place  of  the 
telling  be  too  still  or  too  far  away 
from  those  who  would  not  under 
stand,  those  who  have  not  been  quali 
fied  by  love  to  receive  with  gentleness 
the  tidings  of  defeat? 

I  think  the  ember's  fading  glow 
lasted  five  minutes, — it  might  have 
been  ten, — and  then,  when  the  dark 
ness  was  absolute,  I  straightened  in 
my  chair  and  gave  verbal,  involun 
tary  utterance  to  the  heart-cry  which 
formed  the  conclusion  of  my  letter  to 
you.  And  then — there  was  light  in 
the  room.  It  came  not  from  the 
chandelier — I  had  not  touched  the 
75 


THE    THINGS     HE     WROTE    TO     HER 

switch, — nor  from  the  grate — the  fire 
was  out, — nor  from  the  moonless 
night  outside,  but  from  the  direction 
of  the  oaken  doors,  locked  and  draped 
to  keep  out  everything  that  might 
seek  ingress,  even  sound  and  light. 
A  succession  of  strange  thrills  ran 
through  my  body.  It  was  as  if  a 
million  little  batteries  were  trained 
upon  my  being,  pelting  me  with 
grains  of  warm,  golden  sand,  each 
bringing  its  quota  of  life  and  hope 
and  power.  The  ecstasy  of  it  was 
indescribable,  and  under  its  spell  I 
held  myself  in  leash  until  the  elements 
that  create  and  conquer  seemed  to 
possess  me  utterly,  and  then,  with 
peculiar,  exultant  strength  and  a  new 
and  supernormal  sense  of  the  worth 
76 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO     HER 

of  life  and  opportunity,  I  rose  to  my 
feet  and  turned  raptly  and  reverently 
toward  the  apparent  source  of  the 
light  and  there,  silhouetted  against 
the  drapery  over  the  oaken  doors, 
bearing  no  candle,  herself  the  radi 
ance,  her  vestment  of  white  contrast 
ing  strangely  with  the  crimson  of  the 
smiling  lips  and  the  pink  of  the  wait 
ing  arms,  was  her  to  whom  my  soul 
had  cried  at  midnight  in  the  hour  of 
its  supreme  need ! 

Tell  me,  is  this  news  to  you  ? 

And  tell  me  also,  this:  In  the 
crisis-hour,  when  God  is  gone  and 
there  is  no  star,  or  when  a  soul  has 
been  qualified  by  experience  and  suf 
fering  to  receive  some  great  new 
truth,  may  it  not  be  that  time  and 
77 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

space,  darkness  and  light,  substance 
and  form,  even  all  things  are  put  at 
Love's  disposal  for  the  work  of  rein 
forcement  and  revelation  ? 

I  do  not  believe  in  miracles — can 
not  think  that  there  has  ever  been  any 
interruption  in  the  orderly  operations 
of  Nature — but  I  regard  as  reason 
able  the  possibility  that  there  are 
phases  and  functions  of  natural  law 
with  which  we  are  not  yet  familiar. 

And  of  this  I  am  sure — I  saw  no 
wraith ;  I  dreamed  no  dream ;  I  needed 
you,  and  you  came,  and  with  you 
courage  for  the  dawn.  And  that  is 
why  I  see  the  river  flowing  over  its 
white  stones,  and  know  the  flowers 
are  greeting  the  day,  and  hear  the 

goldfinch's  song. 

78 


UPON  HER  BROW 


Your  last  letter  is  heavy  with 
self-depreciation.  Surely  you  dipped 
your  pen  that  time  in  the  ink  of  a 
raven  mood,  and  wrote  things  about 
yourself  which  I  strenuously  deny. 
You  look  well  in  humility,  I  admit, 
but  a  garment  is  a  thing  which  is  put 
on  and  off  and  changed  for  others, 
and  now  I  purpose  to  drape  you  with 
warrantable  and  gentle  pride,  and 
find  a  bit  of  laurel  and  a  blessing  to 
put  where  laurel  and  blessings  belong 
— upon  your  brow!  Bend  low  and 
79 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

listen  and  then  go  proudly,  for  you 
among  women  are  worthy. 

If  I  read  history  aright  the  light 
which  does  most  dispel  the  world's 
darkness  is  that  which  shines  when 
the  man-nature  and  the  woman- 
nature  are  in  apposition.  Abelard 
had  his  Heloise,  Browning  his  Eliza 
beth,  Wendell  Phillips  his  Ann,  and 
the  Man  of  Nazareth  faced  his  daily 
task  armored  with  the  love  and  devo 
tion  of  the  women  who  ministered  to 
him.  If  you  put  women  out  of  the 
New  Testament  the  Cross  must  go 
too,  and  there  will  be  left  only  a 
prophet  with  a  halting  tongue,  a 
teacher  who  dared  not  to  die  dutifully 
for  his  truth.  But  when  a  man's  feet 
are  laved  with  a  woman's  tears  there 
80 


THE    THINGS    HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

is  not  in  all  the  world  a  path  too  steep 
for  them,  and  the  wormwood  and  gall 
of  life  are  but  as  a  draught  from  a 
cool,  eternal  spring. 

I  am  not  great,  oh,  woman  of  my 
heart,  and  probably  my  little  span 
will  pass  undistinguished  by  any 
achievement  which  the  world  will  list 
as  notable,  but  what  I  am  I  am  by  the 
grace  of  you,  my  God  incarnate, 
my  mentor,  star  and  spur,  and  lure 
to  all  that  is  best  in  life,  now  and 
after. 

You  know  well  the  work  which  I 
have  chosen  for  myself — chosen  be 
cause  I  deemed  it  important  and  con 
sonant  with  my  nature — work  in 
which  I  invest  myself  with  the  aban 
don  of  a  gamester  to  whom  the  game 
81 


THE    THINGS    HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

is  all;  well,  this  work  I  do  as  in  the 
shade  of  your  living  presence. 

If,  with  the  rising  of  each  day's 
sun,  the  spirit  of  the  hunt  is  begotten 
within  me,  and  I  leap  at  my  task  as 
leaps  the  hound  at  the  throat  of  the 
stag,  it  is  because,  for  your  sake,  I 
count  the  quarry  good  and  worth 
while. 

You  have  believed  in  me  and  in 
what  I  am  trying  to  do;  when  the 
world  laughed  at  my  dreams  you 
smote  its  face  with  the  fierceness  of  a 
woman  who  shields  her  own ;  in  those 
creative  hours  when  the  Voices  called 
and  I  dared  not  to  disobey — when 
that  which  was  not  became — you 
were  near,  fusing  your  breath  and 
prayer  with  mine;  and  when  I  have 
82 


THE    THINGS    HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

staggered  under  the  weight  of  things, 
and  reached  out  in  the  darkness, 
always,  always  you  have  put  yourself 
under  my  hand  to  stay  and  steady  me. 
And  in  that  later  day  of  victory, 
when  I  and  what  I  do  are  justi 
fied  to  the  world,  and  I  lie  prone  with 
weariness,  as  victors  always  lie  at  the 
battle's  end,  if  you,  you,  will  but  kneel 
beside  me  and  smile  into  my  eyes — 
ah,  that,  indeed,  will  be  to  me  the  hour 
supreme ! 

This — this  grateful  avowal  of  what 
you  are  to  me — is  what  I  meant  by 
the  laurel  and  the  blessing. 


THE  PROBLEM 


If  our  path  should  ever  straight 
en  and  widen  so  we  could  walk  it  side 
by  side,  in  the  sunlight,  seeing  ahead, 
and  with  the  permission  afforded  by 
a  certificate  of  conventional  marriage, 
what  then?  Would  it  be  as  well 
with  us  then  as  now? 

Men  and  women  were  joined  to 
gether  and  faced  the  issues  of  their 
fused  lives  long  before  the  fickle 
cement  of  state  or  ecclesiastical  cere 
mony  was  invented,  and  a  home  is 
something  more  than  a  house  with  a 
fire,  a  cat,  a  cot,  a  set  of  dishes  and 
84 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO     HER 

two  or  more  human  beings  moving 
about  among  the  furnishings. 

Once  in  a  while,  in  order  that  I  may 
be  informed  in  the  matter  of  marital 
advantage — or  disadvantage — I  climb 
as  high  as  I  can  in  the  ether  of  dis 
interestedness  and  train  my  glass  on 
the  domesticity  below.  And  this  I 
see:  many  houses  and  few  homes; 
many  men  and  women  living  together 
and  few  real  husbands  and  wives; 
crowds  of  accidental  offspring,  but 
only  now  and  then  a  child  who  is  the 
result  of  a  spiritual  conspiracy  be 
tween  its  father  and  mother,  whose 
being  was  deliberately  planned  in  the 
starchamber  of  intelligence  and  love 
— love  so  sure  of  its  own  worth  and 
divinity  that  it  longs  for  perpetuation 
85 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO     HER 

in  the  ampler  life  of  another  and  later 
soul.  Soft  carpets,  delicate  food  and 
art  in  frames  of  gold  have,  in  them 
selves,  no  joy  or  substance.  Matri 
mony  lacking  sustained  mental  and 
affectional  unity  is  a  miserable  estate. 
The  function  of  man  is  the  inspira 
tion  of  woman;  the  function  of 
woman  is  the  inspiration  of  man. 
Wage-earning  and  housekeeping, 
children  and  charities  are  but  inci 
dents.  The  statesmanship  of  the 
heart  involves  an  irrevocable  statute 
of  reciprocity — mutual  inspiration. 
There  is  no  level  so  dead  as  that 
which  is  reached  in  the  descent  of  a 
man  and  woman  who,  wittingly  or  un 
wittingly — it  makes  no  difference — 
have  lost  the  power  of  communion, 
86 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

and  are  daily  stung  by  the  memory  of 
a  brittle  and  impotent  vow.  Whoso 
loves  is  blest ;  whoso  promises  to  love 
is  a  speculator  in  the  soul's  futures  of 
which  he  knows  nothing.  My  love  is 
fair  today,  but  will  she  be  fair  tomor 
row?  It  will  depend  on  her  tomor 
row  quality — and  mine.  And  then — 
oh,  paradox  of  pain  and  heartbreak! 
— though  she  be  as  fair  as  Christ  she 
may  not  be  fair  to  me. 

No  man  can  love  a  woman,  in  the 
sex  sense,  merely  because  she  is  good. 
He  can  only  love  his  woman,  and 
then,  whether  she  be  good  or  bad,  he 
is  bought  and  sold  by  her  smile  or 
sigh.  This  may  not  be  as  it  ought  to 
be,  but  it  is  as  it  is,  and  the  gods  sit 
complacently  by  without  interfering 
87 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO     HER 

with  the  resultant  mosaic  of  happi 
ness  and  woe. 

I  am  not  afraid  of  Fate;  I  do  not 
shy  at  responsibility ;  I  want  all  of  life 
that  is  coming  to  me,  and  covet  for 
you  every  good,  but  I  am  wondering 
whether  any  further  bliss  or  oppor 
tunity  would  be  added  to  you  and  me 
in  an  odor  of  orange  blossoms  and  a 
shower  of  rice.  What  we  have  now 
is  so  sweet  and  inspirational,  so  given 
to  the  bringing  out  of  the  best  that  is 
in  us,  so  marked  in  its  progress 
toward  the  ideal,  that  I  am  loth  to 
trade  it,  if  the  opportunity  should  oc 
cur,  for  any  change  or  chance  that 
might  shatter  the  bisque  of  achieved 
happiness.  The  necessity  for  deci 
sion  does  not  seem  to  be  immanent, 
88 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO     HER 

but  if  it  were,  what  would  we  do? 
For  my  part  I  confess  I  do  not  know. 
But  this  we  can  do  without  fear  of 
error — fight  for  every  possible  hour 
like  the  last.  Oh,  the  riches  of  it !  I 
count  them  over  and  over  as  a  miser 
counts  his  ingots,  and  the  further 
greed  of  me  passeth  understanding. 


89 


THE  ACCIDENT 


I  have  your  letter  saying  that  he 
is  dead.  The  suddenness  of  the  thing 
is,  to  a  degree,  shocking,  but  that  is 
the  way  the  wheel  sometimes  turns, 
and  it  may  select  one  of  us  as  the  next 
victim.  Who  knows  ? 

I  believe  you  capable  of  the  appro 
priate  sort  of  grief. 

You  have  hoed  this  row  of  yours 
to  the  end  and  hoed  it  well. 

I  bear  him  no  ill-will,  and  never 

did.     He  is  a  young  soul  and,  in  time, 

will  doubtless  catch  up  with  Justice 

and     Gentleness     and     Opportunity. 

90 


THE    THINGS    HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

He  simply  did  not  understand  you — 
could  not — and  so  was  only  able  to 
hail  you  awkwardly  across  the  gulf 
which  lay  between. 

If  there  is  aught  I  can  do  in  this 
hour,  command  me.  I  fear  there  is 
nothing.  But  there  may  be  other 
hours.  If  so,  we  will  try  to  make 
them  wholesome  and  fine.  To  think 
of  a  program  just  now  would  be  un 
timely.  I  have  only  this  word :  when 
at  the  final  hour,  as  you  sit  where  you 
are  expected  to  in  the  shaded  room, 
be  glad,  with  me,  that  the  mean  and 
unworthy  has  not  passed  between  us. 
We  have  only  walked  the  path  that 
was  plainly  marked  for  us.  I  be 
lieve  that  for  us  both  it  has  been  an 
upward  one,  and  that  no  injustice  has 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

been  done  to  the  one  who  sleeps. 
Conceptions  of  fidelity  differ;  the 
choices  of  youth  do  not  always  stand ; 
and  true  marriage  is  not  a  thing  of 
time,  place  or  ceremony,  and  may 
exist  without  the  physical  seal  or 
sacrament. 

This  will  of  necessity  be  for  you  a 
time  of  retrospection,  and  I  remind 
you  of  these  things  as  a  help  to  se 
renity — that  you  may  not  be  unduly 
disturbed  by  the  present  circum 
stances,  sad  and  trying  as  they  may 
be,  nor  led  into  any  repudiation  of 
thoughts  and  feelings  which  were 
carefully  weighed  before  they  were 
entertained. 


92 


THE  PROPOSITION 


Since  Fate  set  fire  to  our  thongs 
and  our  free  feet  are  winged  to  carry 
us  whither  we  will,  I  have  been 
gathering  my  man-and-woman  no 
tions  together,  and  desire  now  to 
spread  them  before  you  that  you  may 
know  fully,  think  deeply,  and  decide 
wisely  your  part  of  the  immanent 
question — what  we  are  to  do  with  our 
future. 

A  courtship  on  a  haircloth  sofa, 
with  an  emotional  climax  and  two 
tickets  for  Niagara,  is  not  in  the  pic 
ture.     We  are  neither  fledglings  nor 
93 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO     HER 

fools.  Whatever  our  years,  we  are 
not  under  thirty. 

Experience  has  made  us  competent 
to  weigh  and  choose  and  act  and  stay 
by.  The  best  of  life  is  still  ahead — 
it  always  is.  But  we  must  make  no 
mistake.  The  premature  or  ill-ad 
vised  fusion  of  heart  interests  is  al 
ways  a  mistake — the  sorriest  of  earth 
— and  our  years  and  natures  entitle 
us  now,  I  think,  to  a  pleasant  sunlit 
sea,  whether  we  sail  together  or 
otherwise. 

My  own  mind  is  clear.  The  world 
of  women  has  simplified  itself — only 
you  remain.  You  are  my  kind  of  a 
queen — I  have  known  it  long — and 
your  scepter  is  the  one  under  which 
I  choose  to  bow,  but  your  mind,  too, 
94 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

must  be  clear, — you  must  not  weave 
of  your  tresses  a  coronet  for  me  un 
less  you  are  very  certain  that  I  am, 
and  am  likely  to  continue,  your  kind 
of  a  king. 

Be  reminded  then  that  I  am  a 
peculiar  man  with  many  associates 
and  few  friends.  My  theories  of  life 
isolate  me  from  the  mass,  and  society, 
in  the  popular  sense,  I  am  not  able 
even  to  discern.  I  am  often  lonely 
and  sometimes  would  starve  were  it 
not  for  the  nourishment  which  is 
stored  up  within  myself — my  own  fat, 
as  it  were,  tides  me  over.  I  am  called 
impractical,  a  dreamer  of  dreams,  an 
iconoclast,  an  idler.  Because  I  culti 
vate  poise  and  do  not  fume  and  sweat, 
some  people  who  know  me  merely  by 
95 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

sight  even  say  that  I  am  lazy,  though 
it  is  my  custom  to  sleep  at  twelve, 
waken  at  six  and  toil  the  rest  of  the 
time,  with  numerous  lapses,  however, 
and  a  keen  scent  for  any  kind  of  a 
frolic  which  makes  for  recreation. 

I  have  proved  most  proverbs  false 
and  can  live  by  them  only  after  I  have 
turned  them  up-side-down.  I  hate 
greed,  idleness,  pull,  bluster,  cruelty, 
intolerance,  and  a  religion  that  can  be 
used  for  trade  purposes;  and  I  love, 
well — the  things  that  are  summed  up 
in  you.  A  list  is  unnecessary — look 
in  the  glass. 

I  have  heard  that  women  are  best 

pleased  with  burly  men  who  tyrannize 

over  them  and  knock  them  about,  but 

I  hope  this  is  n't  true  in  your  case — I 

96 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO     HER 

know  it  is  n't — for  that  role  does  n't 
fit  me,  I  should  be  mis-cast.  Always 
would  I  guard  and  shelter  you  and 
study  to  provide  the  environment 
which  comports  with  your  nature,  the 
setting  which  does  most  facilitate  the 
expression  of  your  rays  and  values. 

Your  hands  are  beautiful,  skilful, 
competent,  and  I  have  respected  you 
because,  unlike  women  who  loll  and 
dress  and  parade,  you  have  chosen  to 
be  busy,  to  have  a  task,  to  achieve 
excellence  along  many  lines  of  manual 
and  artistic  accomplishment,  in 
terpreting  yourself  by  what  you 
wrought  with  persistence  and  pains 
taking  care. 

But  now  I  have  a  different  plan  for 
you — I  hope  you  may  think  it  a  better 
97 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

one.  I  do  not  want  you  for  house 
keeping  purposes  nor  even  as  an  ad 
ministrative  domestic  convenience. 
You  are  to  be  neither  cook,  laundress 
nor  maid,  and  whatever  is  necessary 
in  the  way  of  embroidery  or  dress 
making  can  be  "let  out."  Many  a 
good  and  worthy  woman  who  is  not 
my  kind  of  a  queen  is  looking  for  just 
such  work  as  this  and  really  has  the 
right  to  be  employed. 

My  program  for  you  is  this :  You 
have  proved  your  capacity  for  many 
forms  of  work  which  you  had  to  do; 
now,  you  are  to  elect  your  occupa 
tions,  you  are  to  give  free  rein  to 
your  choices,  and  do  the  things  you 
love  to  do.  Your  tastes  and  whims 
are  to  be  considered  and  the  oppor- 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO     HER 

ttmities  you  have  longed  for  and  been 
denied,  are  to  come  your  way  in 
plenteous  measure;  you  are  to  have 
abundant  time  in  which  to  care  for 
and  perpetuate  your  body — it  is  a 
wonderful  body,  the  only  one  you  will 
have  for  quite  a  long  while,  and  it  is 
entirely  worthy  of  the  finest  possible 
attention.  It  is  your  house,  the  one 
you  live  in,  the  one  by  which  you  ex 
plain  yourself  to  the  world.  If  house 
keeping  must  be  done,  you  may  do  it 
there.  I  think  one's  main  debt  to  the 
universe  is  to  keep  young  and  vibrate 
health  and  goodwill  to  the  last.  To 
this  end  you  are  to  have  all  the  con 
veniences. 

Then,  in  my  busy  hours,  sometimes, 
I  want  you  in  my  office,  not  as  an 
99 


THE    THINGS    HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

amanuensis,  but  as  a  companion  and 
counselor.  In  the  world  of  business 
there  has  not  as  yet  been  proper  ap 
preciation  of  the  intuitive  faculty  of 
woman — would  you  mind  functioning 
on  this  plane  a  little,  for  my  sake — 
mind  being  occasionally  a  real,  live 
partner  in  the  dollar-game  which 
simply  must  be  played,  no  matter  how 
much  we  may  prefer  to  play  at  golf 
or  literature  or  travel  ? 

And  then  at  night  I  could  wish  to 
find  you  waiting  for  me  fresh  and 
ready  for  the  evening  together, — a 
fine  and  happy  evening  wherever  we 
may  elect  to  spend  it. 

This,  with  country  roads  and  fields 
and  books,  a  glimpse  of  the  sea  and 
what  is  beyond,  a  share  of  our  best 
100 


THE    THINGS    HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

for  those  who  lack,  and  the  chivalry 
of  a  durable  romance,  is  what  I  have 
in  mind. 

Can  you  brook  this  plan  and  the 
man  who  made  it?  Now  be  very, 
very  sure.  Think  it  over,  count  a 
hundred,  and  then — let  me  know! 


101 


WHY 

a 


I  mailed  you  a  letter  this  morn 
ing  and  now  I  am  writing  again! 
Can  you  stand  another  so  soon? 
Really  this  one  is  quite  different  from 
any  that  has  gone  before,  and  if  you 
do  not  like  it  you  may,  well — send  it 
back  unopened. 

While  what  I  have  hitherto  written 
to  you  is  out  of  my  heart  and  hope,  I 
have  endeavored  to  avoid  the  lover's 
common  phrase,  and  the  titles  and  en 
dearments  tossed  easily  from  careless 
lips.  You  are  not  my  darling,  my 
only  one,  a  human  property  to  be  ad- 
102 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

dressed  in  the  terms  of  ownership. 
You  are  a  woman,  yourself,  with  your 
own  life  to  live,  your  own  course  to 
run,  your  own  goal  to  attain.  My 
title  to  you  is  not  clear.  In  the  Hall 
of  Records  there  is  no  writing  which 
proclaims  that  you  are  mine.  I  can 
not  plat  you  like  a  town,  nor  environ 
you  with  walls  of  steel,  nor  wear  you 
as  a  jewel  upon  my  hand.  And  yet, 
possibly,  by  the  right  of  desire  and 
consonance,  and  with  the  free  assent 
of  your  own  nature,  you  are  my 
estate,  my  treasure,  my  pearl  of  price, 
' — not  to  do  with  as  I  will,  in  the  way 
of  self  and  restriction,  but  to  help  you 
to  fulfil  your  own  life  and  destiny,  to 
find  my  joy  in  your  flight,  though  I 
but  stand  on  the  ground  and  look 
103 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

whither  you  have  ascended.  If  fear 
is  the  thing  that  perfect  love  casts  out, 
then  from  my  heart  is  forever  evicted 
the  fear  that  I  can  lose  you  through 
the  fulfilment  of  the  high  prophecies 
of  your  own  being. 

We  are  wont  to  speak  of  two  kinds 
of  love,  human  and  divine,  but  love  is 
of  a  single  essence — all  love  is  divine, 
and  the  passion  which  spends  not 
itself  on  the  well-being  of  its  object, 
is  not  love  at  all,  but  a  craven  soul- 
metal  whose  baseness  is  revealed  by 
the  test  of  fire  to  which  all  things  are 
subjected. 

Having  this  concept  of  the  nature 

of  love,  its  mission  and  majesty,  I 

hesitate  to  attempt  the  expression  of 

what  my  heart  holds  for  you.     But, 

104 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO     HER 

/  love  you,  and  before  you  make 
answer  to  my  letter  of  this  morn 
ing,  let  me  tell  you  a  little  of  the 
why. 

I  love  the  heart  of  you,  so  tender; 
the  mind  of  you,  so  broad  and  strong ; 
the  soul  of  you — the  whitest  gem  in 
any  fleshly  setting : 

I  love  your  truth  which  flows  down 
to  me  through  your  speech  and  bear 
ing,  like  a  beneficent  brook  whose 
source  is  high  among  God's  rocks  and 
pines : 

I  love  you  for  the  wit  and  banter 
which  ring  so  cheerily  upon  the  shield 
of  my  philosophy : 

I  love  your  thought  for  the  poor — 
our  brothers  of  the  thatch  and  brick, 
with  but  half  a  chance,  fore-doomed 
105 


THE    THINGS     HE    WROTE    TO     HER 

to  quiver  under  the  lash  and  charity 
of  the  rich  and  the  strong : 

I  love  your  love  of  animals, — the 
lesser  folk  who  are  in  process  and 
who  will  arrive,  yet  who,  meanwhile, 
must  take  their  grain  or  bone  from 
human  hands  and  speak  their  thank 
fulness  from  quiet  eyes  and  by  patient 
faithfulness : 

I  love  your  hidden  years,  the  years 
about  which  I  do  not  know,  but  whose 
fruit  I  see  in  what  you  are: 

I  love  your  coming  years,  putting 
in  my  hands  the  gold  of  opportunity, 
the  chance  to  be  to  you  what  a  man 
should  be  to  a  woman : 

I  love  the  prospect  with  you  of 
what  is  called  old  age,  the  time  when 
we  shall  enter  upon  our  finer  youth, 
106 


THE    THINGS    HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

and  in  the  later  hope  and  strength  of 
it,  when  our  now-bodies  are  in  their 
earth  again,  seek  out  each  other  in 
the  distant  spheres: 

I  love  you  for  the  way  you  look 
into  my  eyes,  sailing  your  very  self 
into  the  harbor  of  my  longing : 

I  love  in  you  the  promise  of  other 
lives  which  shall  be  the  expansion  and 
further  expression  of  your  own: 

I  love  your  hunger,  that  I  may  get 
you  bread;  your  thirst,  that  I  may 
search  out  a  spring;  your  weariness, 
that  I  may  cut  boughs  for  your  re 
clining  : 

I  love  your  body,  for  do  you  not 
dwell  in  it?  And  is  it  not  the 
medium  by  which  you  interpret  your 
self  to  me,  and  touch  me  into  the 
107 


THE    THINGS    HE    WROTE    TO    HER 

human  heaven  whose  streets  are  long 
and  fair? 

I  love  your  lips ;  the  lashes  of  your 
eyes ;  the  hands  that  press  my  temples ; 
the  hair  that  forms  my  canopy  at  the 
heated  noon;  the  breast  that  pillows 
me  when  I,  by  toil,  have  earned  the 
right  to  rest  within  your  arms;  and 
I  love  you  for,  oh,  so  many  other 
things!  The  list  is  long  and  I  fain 
would  finish  it  not  now,  but  in  the 
sweet  after-days  when  we  are  to 
gether — together! 

I  told  you  in  the  other  letter  to  take 
your  time  in  thinking  everything 
over,  but  please  don't  take  too  long — 
/  am  waiting. 


THE   END 
108 


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JSS2S8H  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACIL 


A     000  689  766     4 


